


12:51

by uwhatson



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 20:03:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uwhatson/pseuds/uwhatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott foolishly decides that Derek should be the one picking up Stiles for his surprise 18th birthday party. The problem with surprise parties, of course, is that you never quite know how they'll interpret the mystery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	12:51

**Author's Note:**

> For Willa. Happy 21st Birthday!
> 
> Based on [12:51](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bc4ZdiqOaLA) by The Strokes.

“I’m telling you, it’ll totally work, man.”

“I find that very unlik—”

“Oh my god, Derek, WHY,” Scott said, slamming down a stack of Batman-themed paper plates. (They did not make an appropriately thunderous slamming noise, but rather a noise best described as _phut_.) Scott could not understand why Derek was having such a problem with this. Throwing surprise birthday parties was not supposed to be this hard, and yet— _and yet_.

“Why would he follow me out of his house at 1 am? You keep saying it’s a Friday, but—”

“Just tell him it’s a pack meeting or something, Derek, come on,” Scott said, and skirted the brooding pillar of muscle and scruff looming next to the now thoroughly Batmanized dining room table in order to check on how the cake was doing.

Fortunately, Boyd was in charge of the cake, because Scott had learned by now that if you want something to get done, always have Boyd do it. Slightly less than an hour away from Party Launch and Boyd was already halfway done frosting it. Of course, the main challenge was to stop Erica and Isaac from eating all the frosting before it even got on the cake. So far Boyd was keeping them at bay with well-placed smacks from a wooden stirring spoon.

Reassured, Scott turned back toward the dining room. “Allison! Allison, are you—holy shit.”

Scott stopped and stared in wonder at the horrifying web of twisted crepe paper that had made the dining room ceiling its home in the two minutes he’d been in the kitchen. Allison stood sheepishly in the midst of the trailing streamers, the remainder of each roll in her hands. More surprising was the fact that Derek was standing on a chair in the corner, holding up the other ends while clearly awaiting Allison’s instruction.

“Um—” Scott began in the midst of a desperate search for tact, only to have Allison interrupt with, “It looks like a werewolf puked up black crap on the ceiling, doesn’t it?”

“Actually… that’s really accurate,” Scott said smiling, and ignored Derek’s insulted frown from the corner. “Do you think—maybe—”

“Oh my god _what are you doing_ ,” Lydia said as she rounded the corner shrugging off her coat. Allison turned around, caught sight of her horrified face, and immediately burst into hysterical laughter.

“Honestly, you people—Derek, get down from there—if you’re going to insist on using crepe, you could at least do it right—”

Scott breathed a sigh of relief as Lydia proceeded to take over all crepe proceedings, and spun around to go back to the kitchen only to nearly walk face first into Derek.

“It’s still not going to work, Scott,” Derek said, and did that weird eyebrow thing which meant he thought he was totally in the right when actually he wasn’t.

Scott sighed. “Dude, _I told you_ —I can’t go, he’ll know it’s a surprise party if I go, he can always tell when I’m lying.”

“Yeah, because you’re really bad at it.”

“Ha ha, whatever. Just get in your friggin’ Camaro, get him to come back with you, and _don’t spoil the surprise_ , okay?”

Finally— _finally_ —Derek turned around and headed out the door, although he did roll his eyes first—which was kind of annoying, considering all Scott had asked him to do was show up at Stiles’ window at 12:30 on a Friday night and convince him to come to a mysterious meeting at the newly renovated Hale house in the middle of what still remained creepy-ass woods. Honestly, how hard could that be? 

 

Stiles was just about to consider hitting the hay when he heard a light tapping from behind his venetian blinds.

It’d been a long evening—not in the “wow I’m exhausted” sense but more in the sense of “wow time is passing about as fast as dinner at racist Great-Aunt Gertrude’s house.” He was turning eighteen— _eighteen!_ —at 12:51 am precisely, which would usually be the best thing ever, because usually his dad would be here to burst through his bedroom door at that precise minute to throw confetti in his son’s face and begin giving Stiles the appropriate number of birthday kisses.

This year, though, his dad couldn’t afford to take off a double shift just for the sake of covering his son’s floor in confetti, so instead Stiles was promised homemade pancakes and a $5 morning movie of his choice at AMC when he woke up the next day.

Stiles had figured he might as well go to bed, rather than continue what had so far been a six-hour marathon of mini Reese’s, WoW, and feeling pathetically sorry for himself, but he was hardly going to continue down that road when there was a possible serial killer rapping on his window.

With one hand gripped tight around an old baseball bat (now kept handy ever since the incident last spring), Stiles took a deep breath and yanked up the blinds in one go. He then proceeded to scream and throw the bat wildly into the air, although fortunately it landed on the carpet.

Of course, all that Derek freaking Hale did during the course of this display was frown at him from the other side of the glass, looking, if anything, mildly perplexed as to why anyone would be terrified to find a grown man peering through their window.

“What are you _doing_ here?” Stiles demanded after he finally managed to collect some semblance of sanity and heave the window open.

“I need you to come to my house,” Derek said.

“Your _house_? You do realize it’s past midnight, right?” Stiles backed up to allow Derek enough room to climb in, which he did with an irritating amount of attractiveness considering that, if Stiles did that, he would wind up falling hilariously on his ass.

“Yes. It’s—it’s a pack meeting.”

“… pack meeting,” Stiles repeated.

“… yes.”

“On a Friday night.”

“Yes.”

“At 12:43 in the morning?”

“ _Yes_.”

Stiles frowned and held up a hand so he could process this for a minute.

Derek Hale—Derek freaking Hale, that asshole—was in his bedroom for the first time in months. This was significant, given that the last time he’d been in Stiles’ bedroom, Stiles had been pretty sure Derek was about to kiss him full on the mouth. And yes, Stiles was pretty inexperienced when it came to reading those signs, but he felt like a guy’s face being two inches from your own (after you two had just spent the past hour sitting on your bed pretending to discuss werewolf research while really discussing the best parts of the latest Batman movie) was a pretty hard clue to miss. Of course, that was also the precise moment at which Stiles’ dad had slammed the fridge shut downstairs, resulting in Derek jerking back so fast he should’ve gotten whiplash. He then proceeded to mumble something which may have been an excuse but mostly sounded like an incoherent string of consonants, before practically throwing himself out Stiles’ window—all while Stiles looked on in speechless confusion.

Then they had a pack meeting the next day and Derek behaved like absolutely nothing had happened, aside from avoiding encountering Stiles alone ever since. Needless to say, all visits to Stiles’ bedroom had come to an abrupt and unexplained halt. Stiles had bounced back and forth between the opposite spectrums of eating entire self-pity pizzas by himself and repressing the urge to throw a coffee mug at Derek’s head, but had eventually decided that Derek Hale was an asshole—albeit an annoyingly hot one—and clearly that was Derek’s own problem to deal with.

Of course, that was when Scott chose to mention that Allison and him having sex was currently illegal, because Allison was now eighteen… which kind of shined a new light on Derek’s incredibly frustrating behavior.

And now Derek was standing in Stiles’ bedroom for the first time since March, and— _ohmygod_ —Stiles was turning eighteen in just three minutes.

“…you’re here to makeout with me,” Stiles said.

Derek’s eyes widened. “What?”

“You’re here for my eighteenth birthday makeout,” Stiles repeated and took a step forward. Derek, curiously enough, took a step back—and continued to do so as Stiles kept walking forward, until he found himself pressed up against the closet door.

“You really—it’s really not—why would you think—” Derek began, looking anywhere but Stiles’ face.

Stiles stopped with about one foot of space still between them, and felt his stomach slowly twisting in a mix of both embarrassment and disappointment.

“But you—in March, you—and Scott said—” Stiles covered his eyes with a hand, wishing he could vanish on the spot, trying to fixate on little things like the scratchy carpet against his feet or the soft whir of his laptop fan—pretty much anything but the overwhelming crush of humiliation. “Oh, Christ, I didn’t—sorry, wow, you must think I’m an idiot—”

“What?”

“Sorry, I’m going to go crawl into a cave in Argentina and live there until I die, just, show yourself out if you don’t mind, sorry I ever thought you would ever want to, um— _y’know_ —eighteen or otherwise, just—”

“I would definitely like to kiss you, Stiles,” Derek said, and Stiles froze.

Unfortunately, this meant Stiles’ hand was still over his eyes, but he couldn’t seem to summon the nerve to actually pry said hand off his face, which meant that he still couldn’t see anything when he said, “…like right now?”

“When do you turn eighteen?”

“Dude, it’s already Saturday, I am totally—”

“I am not having your dad pull a shotgun on me, Stiles. When is it?”

“What time is it right now?”

“Your clock says 12:50.”

“Right, well—one minute, then.”

“…oh.”

“Yeah.”

“…are you going to take your hand off your eyes?”

“I don’t know. I’m still really embarrassed. Y’know, about pretty much everything that’s happened in the last ten minutes, but especially what’s happening right now.”

“We actually do have somewhere to be, though.”

“Yeah, right.”

“No, I mean it, I have to, um, show you something.”

“Okay, now you’re definitely joking.”

“Stiles, I didn’t actually come over here with the intention of making out with you, and you know what, we won’t _be_ making out, because we have to—”

“Oh, like _hell_ we won’t be,” Stiles said, and finally dropped his hand from his eyes, took one step forward, pressed their mouths together—and they were kissing. 

 

 _Scott is going to kill me_ , was Derek’s first frantic thought, to which he then added, I _am going to kill me_ , because why the hell was he thinking about Scott McCall when he finally kissing Stiles Stilinski?

And, Jesus, that was Stiles’ hand slipping under his shirt, and those were Stiles’ fingernails scraping against his skin.

“You—asshole,” Stiles breathed out against his mouth, pressing him up against the closet as if Derek might try to run off.

“Ex—excuse me?” Derek managed to reply before starting to explore Stiles’ neck.

“Oh, holy—you made me wait— _months_ —oh Christ—and you—you didn’t even—god, Derek—even _tell me_ —”

“Stiles, you’re persistent—and per—mm, do that ag—yeah, wow, um—you’re, you’re persuasive.”

“So?”

“So that’s ha—that’s _difficult_ when—”

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Stiles interrupted the moment Derek’s fingertips dipped below the edge of his jeans, and Derek found himself being dragged across the room and thrown summarily onto the bed. Stiles landed on top of him shortly thereafter. 

 

“… Scott.”

“Yeah?”

“How long have we been sitting here uncomfortably in the dark?”

“Um… let me just… about—twenty minutes.”

“… goodness, how time flies.”

“Maybe Stiles was in pajamas already.”

“… uh huh.”

“Or maybe… Derek took a wrong turn…”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m sure they’ll be here any second now.”

“Well, in that case, I’ll gladly spend another twenty minutes sitting on hardwood floor.”

“Any second now, guys.”

“Scott, I’m not sure—”

“Any second.”


End file.
